


Conversations with imaginary friends

by DreamsofRomance



Category: BoJack Horseman
Genre: Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Nostalgia, Personal Growth, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:42:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamsofRomance/pseuds/DreamsofRomance
Summary: Mr. Peanutbutter goes on a little road trip to Houston.
Relationships: Mr. Peanutbutter/Diane Nguyen, Mr. Peanutbutter/Pickles
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Conversations with imaginary friends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Myrtle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrtle/gifts).



> Thanks for your awesome prompts! I had a lot of fun writing this story, and I hope you'll enjoy it equally well. Happy Yuletide! xx

The road stretches out before him like a dark grey ribbon, weaving itself through the parched Californian wilderness. From high above, the sun shines down on him, making his fur gleam as golden as ever. His tongue is out, he’s got his new shades on, the warm wind is blowing in his hair, and he can’t get over how _great_ this idea was. It was his therapist, Dr. Bola, that had suggested it to him; that instead of flying, he should drive down to Houston for Diane’s wedding. Make a trip out of it, sort of speak. And even though Dr. Bola told him during one of their first sessions that he needs to stop thinking everyone is by default his friend, nor are they necessarily going to be, she had offered to lend him her vintage sports car for the drive. If that isn’t friendly, he doesn’t know _what_ is! It’s a great little convertible, red as an apple in the sunlight, with an airplane dashboard and a steering wheel made of polished blonde wood. Apparently, therapists in LA do pretty well for themselves, and Dr. Bola, with her huge, dark, unfathomable alpaca eyes is no exception. It’s like she can stare right into your soul with those things. She never says much, but what she says is usually spot on. Like suggesting this road trip, for example.

He lets out a bark of pure joy. God, he’d forgotten how great driving can be! Road trips are _the best._ Still, he hadn’t always liked them. There had been a time, back when he was still a pup, when he used to get sick in cars. But then one day, his dad had bought him these vanilla-venison cookies, and that had settled his stomach, and then it had turned into sort of a tradition. Each time they went for a long drive, a bag of cookies had been sitting in the back seat, waiting for him, like an early Christmas present. Boy, those were the days!

 _Hey, why don’t I get some right now!_ he thinks, when he sees the next stop being advertised. A big billboard points the way. He takes the exit and pulls up to the store. While one of the two gas station attendants, a pimply looking seagull, tops up his car, he goes and finds what he came for. Professor Cookiecutter’s Crackerjack Car Cookies! Vanilla-Venison Flavored. He shakes his head, smiling to himself. Even the packaging is still exactly the same as it used to be, like the past three decades didn’t happen. 

He cracks the bag open as soon as he’s out of the store, and when he tosses the first, bone-shaped cookie into his mouth, a wave of nostalgia hits him. A feeling that intensifies even further when he hears the laughs and shouts of the toddlers in the small playground off the side of the store building. Crunching away happily, he gets into the car and turns the ignition on. 

‘Takes you right back, doesn’t it?’ says a voice to his right.

Mr. Peanutbutter turns his head and sees his brother Captain, sitting in the passenger’s seat. Only it isn’t old Captain, it’s _the old_ Captain, back when he was still young, if that makes sense.

‘Oh, hey Cap!’ Mr. Peanutbutter greets the new arrival happily, immediately offering him a cookie. ‘What a stroke of luck to find you here! Driving is even _more_ fun if you don’t have to do it alone. I could sssssure use a co-pilot for my road trip!’

And he has absolutely no problem imagining one. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. Imagining his friends. He’s gotten really good at it, too. Well, according to Dr. Bola, he’s _always_ been good at it.

‘You have a tendency to project your own ideal image of people onto them, Mr. Peanutbutter,’ she had lisped through her cleft upper lip. ‘A strong need to fit people into your picture of reality. Cast them in the show that is your life, sort of speak.’

He doesn't completely understand what she meant by that. Maybe it has something to do with that other part; the part where not everyone is by default his friend. 

But Cap sure is!

‘Remember when we used to play like that?’ his younger older brother reminisces, nibbling on a cookie, as they circle the playground and pull onto the interstate again. ‘Back in the Labrador Peninsula? All we did was run around on the lawn, chased sticks, go hiking and swimming and have big barbecue dinners with the whole Peanutbutter family…’

‘Of course I remember!’ Mr. Peanutbutter calls out. ‘How could I forget? Those were the best years of my life. After all, nothing bad ever happens in the Labrador Peninsula, right?’ He gives young Captain a wink.

‘I hear ya, brother!’ Captain replies with a nod. ‘To be honest, I don’t understand why you ever left! Just imagine: we could have been living next door from each other right now, our kids going to the same school, our families spending every holiday together… Why on earth did you move to LA?’

‘You know, my therapist asked me the very same question,’ Mr. Peanutbutter says in conversational tone, as he switches lanes and overtakes a station wagon filled with a very proliferous rabbit family. The kids are squeezed in so tightly their faces press up against the car windows. ‘But LA just seemed so exciting at the time. All that sunshine, and all those happy people, miles and miles of hiking trails…’

‘You’ve got all that in the Labrador Peninsula, too.’

‘Sure. But… well…’ He hesitates, then continues: ‘As you know, Captain, there are only _Labradors_ in the Labrador Peninsula.’

Young Captain doesn’t see the problem. ‘So?’

Mr. Peanutbutter shrugs, and admits, a bit embarrassed: ‘I always sort of wanted a _human_ of my very own.’

‘Oh no,’ Captain sighs, raising his hands to the skies in desperation. ‘The Human Trap! You should know better, little brother!’

‘I know,’ says Mr. Peanutbutter, cringing in shame. ‘It’s a terrible stereotype, dogs supposedly belonging with humans, but I can’t help myself. I _need_ to be with that special person; that special someone I can devote my life to.’

Captain shakes his head solemnly and gives a sigh. ‘So that’s what you went looking for in LA.’

Mr. Peanutbutter shrugs. ‘Yeah, I figured there would be loads of humans there. And I love movies, and TV, and TV-movies! So, I decided to try my luck. After all, there’s always job opportunities for dogs on screen. I mean, I literally _stumbled_ into being cast as the star of _Mr. Peanutbutter’s house!_ ’ He chuckles.

‘And so you stumbled onto your first human, Katrina.’

He pricks his ears. ‘Yes!’

‘But she left you.’

‘Yes.’ He hangs his shoulders.

‘And then you found your second human.’

‘Yes!’ His ears go up again. ‘Jessica Biel!’

‘But she left you, too.’

‘Yes…’ Again, his shoulders droop.

‘And then there was _Diane._ ’

Diane…

Mr. Peanutbutter stares at the road in front of him. The way it rises and falls and curves through the landscape. At the mountains in the distance, the chaparral and the pale, hard-baked earth underneath. Lost in thought, he passes the California state line into Arizona, almost without noticing. The landscape grows even more arid. He’s come far already, but there’s still a long way to go. The whole of Arizona, New Mexico, and a huge part of Texas lie before him. It’s too big a drive to make in one go, so he’s booked a hotel in El Paso for tonight, and another one in Houston itself for the day after. That way he can get to Diane’s wedding the subsequent morning, looking rested and refreshed. He thinks of the tux in his overnight bag, hoping it won’t be too badly rumpled, and suddenly, the image of an empty hotel room waiting for him, its shadowy interior blue in the moonlight, opens a hollow of loneliness inside him so big it threatens to swallow him whole. 

‘She was The One, wasn’t she? _Diane,_ I mean.’

‘Oh!’ he starts. ‘Hey, Pickles. Sorry, didn’t realize you were there.’

‘No, you never did, did you?’ she gives him an angry look from the passenger’s seat, her arms crossed in front of her. ‘It was always _Diane._ ’

He ducks a little behind the steering wheel. ‘I’ve apologized for that, Pickles. I’m sorry; I don’t know what more I can say.’ He grabs the bag of Car Cookies and offers her one.

‘No thank you, I’m dieting. Now, tell me this: was it because of your obsession with _humans_ that you started dating me, another _dog,_ for a change? Was it an attempt not to be abandoned by another _human_ anymore?’

‘You’re sounding exactly like my therapist!’ he says, surprised. ‘Well, add the rancor. But she pretty much suggested the very same thing.’

‘Well, she’s right!’

‘I suppose she could be,’ he muses, munching on a new cookie. ‘But if that _was_ the reason I started dating you, it certainly wasn’t a conscious decision. Trust me, Pickles, I really liked you a great deal.’

Pickles’ anger evaporates immediately. ‘Aww, that’s sweet, Mister,’ she smiles, with that cute little pug-face of hers. ‘Apart from the whole Diane-thing, you always were such a very good boy! What a shame you and I didn’t work out. Why do you think that was?’

‘I think it had to do with something Di—, eh, _someone,_ said to me, once.’

‘What was that?’

‘Well,’ he begins. ‘This… _person_ … said my relationships never last because I always date girls — young women, in their twenties. And when those girls mature, they outgrow me and leave.’

Pickles thinks about this. ‘Hm. Sounds pretty accurate. Though _I_ am in no way mature yet!’ she adds proudly.

‘No, not yet,’ he agrees. ‘But you would be, one day. And then it would have hurt even more to let you go. Just like it did with Katrina, and Jessica, and…’

‘ _Diane,_ ’ she finishes his sentence, a tinge of frost in her tone again.

‘Yeah,’ he says, his shoulders drooping.

Pickles looks out of the window for a while, just staring at the scenery passing by. ‘Is that true, though?’ she finally asks. ‘That you let me go? Not just with Joey Pogo, I mean, but… _go,_ from our relationship? Is that why you encouraged me to sleep with all those other guys?’ She turns and looks at him, her big brown smokey-eye-tutorialed gaze sad as ever.

Mr. Peanutbutter doesn’t know what to say. The he admits, embarrassed: ‘I think on some level I knew that was going to be the end result, yes.’

‘Oh, Mister!’ she pants, breathless. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me!’ She throws her arms around his neck and gives him a big kiss. ‘You knew I was going to be unhappy with you, and you let me go!’

‘You’re welcome,’ he smiles. ‘Though, like I said, I did it as much for myself as for you. Because…well…’ She lets go of him and sits back again, her hands on her knees, ears pricked, waiting attentively for him to continue. He takes a deep breath and admits: ‘Because _I_ want to be happy, too. To be honest, I haven’t been _truly_ happy in a very long time. Not since the Labrador Peninsula.’ He shakes his head. ‘It’s just like Captain said: I’ve fallen into the Human Trap. Oh, if I could just find someone who’ll be as loyal to me as I am willing to be to them! That one special person who’ll stay with me and be my mate for the rest of our lives!’ He’s an inch from throwing his head in his neck and howling, right now.

Pickles keep a level head, though. She thinks about what he has said, one finger to her lips in concentration, then suggests: ‘Well, if that’s the way you feel, then why don’t you grow up, too? Become more mature yourself. That way, all your girlfriends and wives wouldn’t keep outgrowing you. We need to turn you from a “good boy” into a “good man”, sort of speak.’ She giggles at her pun.

‘Dr. Bola’s words exactly,’ he replies, with a sigh. ‘I know, I know, I’m working on it.’

The road is getting more deserted now. There are fewer cars and more heavy trucks. He passes a big eight-wheeler, the red dash of the sportscar sliding along the curved side of its chromed tank. He’s making good time. If he continues on like this, he should be in El Paso at a relatively decent hour. Maybe the hotel restaurant will still be open and he can get a hot meal. He isn’t in the mood for room service right now. He wants to have people around. For some reason, lying down all alone in that shadowy, moonlit room still fills him with dread.

‘Feeling a bit haunted?’

‘Jesus, BoJack!’ he cries out.

BoJack chuckles. ‘Welcome to my world!’ he says, spreading his arms wide. ‘Well, I actually would have preferred to have been in the back seat, for the added dramatic effect. You seeing me in the rear-view mirror, and all that. But this car doesn’t have a back seat, so.’ He caresses the dashboard, and whistles. ‘Impressive! What you would call my kind of car. Smart of your therapist to go for a convertible, too, with her being an alpaca and all. You just can’t get that kind of neck-space in another type of car. As a fellow-long-necked animal, I can relate. Anyway, it makes being in it with _you_ a bit less of a chore.’

Mr. Peanutbutter smiles, a light frown wrinkling his forehead. ‘You know, BoJack,’ he begins, ‘you always do that. Talk to me like you weren’t really my friend, or something. _Are_ you my friend? Dr. Bola says I should ask myself that question from time to time when dealing with people.’

‘Oh, I’m your friend all right!’ BoJack rummages in the bag of Car Cookies and fishes one out. ‘I just don’t like being it, is all.’ He takes a bite from the cookie, and immediately spits it back out. ‘Jesus! What flavor is this?’

‘Hm,’ says Mr. Peanutbutter, narrowing his eyes. ‘Not quite sure I understand what you’re saying...’

‘Me neither,’ BoJack coughs, working hard to get every last crumb of Vanilla-Venison out of his system. ‘All I know is that I find you annoying, but at the same time, somehow impossible to say no to. So I guess there must be _some_ part of you which I like.’ 

‘What part is that?’

‘The Diane-part.’

‘Diane is no longer with me.’

‘No, I mean the part Diane _liked_ about you.’

‘Oh.’

‘You see, Diane and I are actually very much alike. We’re basically gloomy people: tend to get in the way of our own happiness; repeat the same mistakes over and over and _over_ again, before we can finally learn; think about things _way_ too much… And you! You bring lightness and positivity, and you _certainly_ don’t think about things too much… That’s the part of you Diane likes. And, though I hate to admit it, the part I like too. You balance us.’

‘Right. Thanks. I guess.’

‘It’s _also_ that very same part which drives us away from you,’ he continues, getting enthused now. ‘Because you lack that depth Diane and I crave in all things. Because you’re so invariably _happy_ all the time, and that painfully confronts us with what we both lack.’

‘I don’t really care for the way you say “Diane and I”…’

‘What’s the problem? I mean, she isn’t marrying me, is she? I know you always secretly feared that,’ he grins, looking pleased with himself. ‘No, she’s marrying some entirely new guy. Wow, talk about an American symbol! She does like her rugged, traditional types, doesn’t she? I mean, a dog, a horse, and now a friggin’ buffalo!’

‘What do you mean, a horse? And how do you know she’s getting married, anyway? I though she hadn’t invited you?’

‘She hasn’t. And I don’t. But I’m not the real BoJack. The real BoJack is in jail. You’re just talking to your own, imaginary version of BoJack. Which basically means you’re talking to yourself. What does your therapist have to say about that, I wonder? Can’t be healthy, if you ask me.’

‘I don’t think you’re the one to speak to about healthy behavior.’ 

‘Touché, my friend!’

Mr. Peanutbutter leans over and turns the radio on. He’s had quite enough of imaginary conversations for now, thank you very much! But all he comes across while flipping through the stations, are sad songs. Not one upbeat nineties hit to be found. He reaches for his cell to find one of his playlists, then changes his mind. The radio station that’s playing right now does classical music, and the violins are getting to him. It does seem fitting, somehow… Plus, the high notes are to _die_ for.

Mr. Peanutbutter covers the rest of the way to El Paso like that, undisturbed by any new companions, and with the sweet, sad melodies filling his head and his heart.

When he arrives at the hotel it’s almost midnight, and the room is as shadowy and moonlit as he had feared. But instead of closing the curtains, turning on all the lights and dialing for room service —the restaurant is closed, of course— he just lies down on the bed in the dark, turning his head to see the sky through the glass sliding door that leads to the terrace. Driving on that endless desert road all day in that otherworldly scenery, listening to that otherworldly music, has gotten him into a strange, contemplative mood. 

‘I just want everyone to be happy. All the time. That’s all I ever wanted,’ he says to the dark.

Next to him, Diane rolls onto her side. ‘I know, baby,’ she sighs, propping herself up on an elbow. 'But that’s impossible. Very few people are truly happy, and the ones that are, are never happy all the time.’

‘I used to be happy all the time. With you, I was.’

‘Come on. We both know that isn’t true.’

‘Okay, maybe not,’ he admits. ‘But I sure tried to be.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’

He turns to her, looks into her eyes. ‘I tried _so hard_ to make you happy, Diane. You have to know that. I tried to give you everything you ever wanted. Make your wildest dreams come true. I tried to fix all your problems. But it seemed like the more I tried, the more _un_ happy you became.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ he sighs, turning onto his back again. ‘It’s me. My therapist says it’s a pattern.’

‘You’re seeing a _therapist?_ ’

‘Yeah.’

‘On your own? I mean, all by yourself?’

He nods.

‘Wow. I wasn’t expecting that! How’s it going?’

‘Great!’ he exclaims. Then he remembers Dr. Bola’s comment about how that’s his standard reply when someone asks him how _anything_ is going. He coughs, checking himself. ‘I mean, we’re making progress. It’s slow. And hard. Not at all like when you and I went to couples’ therapy.’

‘Yeah, but you only went there because I asked you to.’

‘Right! Another failed attempt at making you happy…’ He laughs, and so does she.

They lie side by side for a while, and he closes his eyes, just enjoying the feel of her body next to his, the sound of her breathing, the simple fact of her presence.

‘You don’t know how much I’ve missed this, Diane. I’ve been feeling so lonely in that big house all by myself.’

She scoffs. ‘How can _you_ be lonely? You’ve got like a gazillion friends!’

‘I don’t know. It's just... lately all my friends seem to have moved away from me, either physically, or in spirit. I mean, Erica is off on that trip around the world, Princess Carolyn is engaged, Todd has moved in with his girlfriend, you have been doing all you’ve been doing, even _BoJack_ has broken with old patterns! Everyone has evolved so much. But I’m still same-old Mr. Peanutbutter… ’

She puts her hand on his. ‘I’m sorry to hear that you're feeling so bad.’

He shrugs. ‘It's okay. My therapist says being alone isn’t necessarily a bad thing for me right now. That it’s actually good to be alone for a while; have the time I need to work on myself and all that. You see, apparently I have this deep-rooted fear of abandonment.’

‘No!’ Diane cries out in mock surprise. 

‘Yes!’ he nods, his eyes wide in a 'can-you-believe-it?' expression. ‘Dr. Bola says I need to push through that fear before I can ever hope to build a balanced relationship with someone else.’

Diane arches her eyebrows. ‘Hm. Smart lady, that therapist of yours.’

‘Yeah. Great taste in cars, too. Has something to do with her neck, apparently.’

Diane laughs at that. They lie next to each other in silence for a while, her hand still on his.

‘You didn’t fail, Mr. Peanutbutter.’

‘What?’

‘You didn’t fail at making me happy,' she whispers. 'In the end, I got there.’

He pricks his ears. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. I mean, like you said, you tried everything to make me happy, but ironically, what you really needed to do, was take yourself out of the equation. And you did. And… and I _am_ happy, right now.’

‘But that's not really because of me, right?’

She shrugs. ‘You definitely helped. Significantly. I wouldn’t be who I am right now, if it hadn’t been for the time you and I had together.’

‘So…’ he ventures. ‘One _could_ say that you were my greatest success?’

‘To date.’

A warm feeling spreads through his chest, and from there into his entire body.

‘That makes me very happy,’ he whispers.

The hours creep by, and they stay there, lying side by side in silence in the dark, looking at the ceiling, each lost in their own thoughts. 

When the sky outside starts getting clearer, he says: ‘Diane?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Why did you invite me to your wedding?’

‘I don’t know… Why did you accept?’

He thinks this over. ‘Because I like being with you. Even if it’s at your wedding to another guy.’

‘Oh.’

‘Why did you invite me?’

She hesitates. ‘To be honest? I was afraid not to. I just didn’t want you to find out from someone else I was getting married again. And I didn’t want you to think you weren’t welcome, or that I don’t want anything to do with you anymore now I’m with someone new. You’re still one of my best friends, Mr. Peanutbutter. You always will be.’

‘Thanks. And you’ll always be one of mine. But… you don’t really want me there tomorrow, do you?’

‘…’

‘Go ahead.’

‘No,’ she replies. ‘I don’t.’

*

He gets up as soon as the first rays of rose-gold sunlight fall into the room. He takes a shower, dresses, packs. When he’s ready to go, he prepares a cup of coffee, and takes it out onto to the terrace with him. The early morning air is crisp and refreshing, and he feels like he can breathe better, more freely, than he could yesterday, or the day before that, or even the day before that. In fact, his head hasn’t felt this clear in months. He watches the hotel staff below, preparing the pool area for the day, sparsely watering the drought-proof garden. With a vague smile he finishes his coffee, then takes the rest of his breakfast to go.

He would have loved seeing Diane again. To actually witness her in the act of being happy. But he doesn’t want her to feel uncomfortable on her big day. It’s kind of funny. Now he finally gets what she’s about, all he can do for her, is stay away.

Behind the wheel of the sportscar again, he wonders if Dr. Bola knew beforehand he’d be turning back somewhere along the way. If maybe that was the whole reason she advised him to drive to Houston instead of flying, in the first place. 

_I’ll ask her when I return the car,_ he decides.

He turns onto the interstate again, direction California, this time.

Somehow, he has the feeling there’ll be no more visits from imaginary friends on the drive back. After all, there’s no need. He’ll see his real friends again soon enough. Boy, he can hardly wait! But until then, he is perfectly fine with being on his own. 

‘They’ll be so impressed when they see how much I’ve grown!’ he exclaims, honking the horn a couple of times, just for fun.

 _Good man, Mr. Peanutbutter!_ he congratulates himself. 

But the voice in his head sounds strangely like Dr. Bola’s. 

_Good man…_


End file.
